screwed up in pain, having come down on earth baked hard by the sun, but he shook his head nonetheless; he would never hear the end of it if he admitted to feeling pain. Marcellus dusted him off as he balanced on his good leg, then walked over to fetch the ball, which had landed at the feet of Gaius’s sister, Valeria, though she had made no attempt to pick it up.
Marcellus’s lower belly turned over as he looked at her, which made him feel ridiculous; he had known and disliked her all his life, yet something had happened to that gawky pest who had always contrived to ruin their boyish games. She had suddenly filled out and her face, with her hair dressed on this formal occasion, looked somehow different. As he bent to pick up the ball, his nose detected the scent of her body and he found himself staring at the outline of her long legs, easily visible through the material of her fine woollen dress, his eyes inexorably drawn up towards the vee at the top.
Marcellus stood up suddenly, mentally shaking himself; it was only Valeria dressed up. Indifference would re-surface the moment he saw her in normal clothing, with her hair around her shoulder, but that thought could not be held as he looked into her eyes. She was smiling slightly, and her nosed twitched a fraction, while even her lips seemed to have effected a change, being more full and inviting. Or was it just that she was smiling, given that she normally stuck her tongue out at him.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt your brother,’ he said, wondering why he had bothered to speak.
‘Who cares about brothers?’ She moved her hand across the front of her dress, a move which drew his eyes. Her smile broadened as she saw how his look lingered at the sight of her pubescent breasts, pushing against the fine material.
‘Come on, Marcellus,’ shouted Publius. ‘If you don’t hurry we’ll award you a default.’
Marcellus turned quickly and threw the ball hard at Gnaeus, which was taken smoothly and aimed above the head of the still wounded Gaius, who ignored the pain in his hip and jumped to catch it. The ball was halfway back to Marcellus before he had got his good foot back on the ground. It was not hard; Gaius could not throw with much force from such a position, so it was all the more amazing that he, the best ball player of them all, missed it completely. He smiled weakly at such a silly mistake, then made a rude gesture in response to the farting sound that Publius sent in his direction.
Valeria raised her fingers to her nose, as if she was trying to contain the odour of fresh sweat, which had lingered after Marcellus had walked away.
‘It is too soon, I grant you, but it is something that must happen.’
‘Marriage,’ replied Marcellus, aghast.
‘Why does that sound so strange, boy?’ asked Lucius. ‘Have you never heard of such a thing?’
‘It’s just that I’ve never considered it.’
‘It is not for you to consider,’ Lucius insisted, ‘it is for me to decide.’
Lucius had been drinking, more than was good for him, unusual in so abstemious a man and it was easy to understand why. The leader of the Optimates had, to his mind, pulled off a most telling coup. By attaching Vegetius and his clients to his cause, without at the same time losing Cornelii support, Lucius had guaranteed himself an unassailable majority in the Senate, something well worth celebrating. But it was the presence of all the wives and daughters at his house, adding to the atmosphere, that had led the conversation to this point.
‘Still,’ he said, with a slight bow, ‘it would be interesting to hear if you have any suggestions.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘It’s very simple, Marcellus. We have more power, especially after today, than anyone in Rome, so we do not require to form alliances to increase it.’
‘Money?’ asked his son.
Lucius nodded. ‘Is always handy, provided the family is of the right stock. You understand, Marcellus, that though I inherited a decent estate, I have given my life over to the pursuit of political goals, staying here in Rome for that purpose. Therefore, lesser men have been able to line their pockets with military conquests, or provincial governorships, in a way denied to me.’
‘Do we lack money?’
‘Let us say that we have a fortune in need of repair. Therefore you must marry someone who has a great deal of wealth, but no power. They will be grateful for that which we confer on them, the Falerii name alone is something, and we can take a massive dowry, which will ensure that the family maintains its leading position in Roman society.’
Marcellus, who had had a few cups of wine himself, could smell Valeria’s scent in his nostrils and as he conjured up a vision of her, standing before him, he felt his blood begin to race. ‘Are the Trebonius family wealthy?’
Lucius actually hooted with laughter, his neck stretched out to make him look like a newly hatched fledgling demanding food. ‘No, they’re not, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. The Trebonii have been noble for less than two hundred years. I might countenance a step down for a good dowry, but I won’t go that far.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cholon was tired, hot and dusty; drawn curtains could not keep either the heat or the filth out of his litter. He looked at the scroll on his knees for the hundredth time, praying that he would arrive in Aprilium soon. Many of the men who had died at Thralaxas had come from this region, so the box at his feet was full of silver denarii. The first part of his task would be simple; he had sent a message ahead to the local praetor, asking him to arrange for the relatives of those dead men who had lived close to the town to assemble and await his arrival. That would take care of most of the contents and please the bearers who had had to transport him and his treasure. After that he would deposit the remaining funds at the local temple of the Goddess Roma, then take a tour through the region, hoping to find the dependants of the others on his list. Each would be given a token that, along with proof of their identity, would qualify them for their share of the bequest.
Lying back, he tried to forget the heat, allowing the jogging of his chair to send him into a dream-like state. He had been on the road for weeks now, first to the north of Rome, now heading south. It was so good, no longer being a slave. Odd that the Republic put so much store by the aura of citizenship, yet they allowed any slave freed by a Roman to automatically assume the same rights as his late master. Aulus had left him with more than enough to live in comfort, though he would have given it all back if he could, just to have that man to serve. It was not to be and once this task was over he would have to find a new way of filling his time.
Relations with Claudia had not blossomed immediately, despite her plea that they should be friends, but they had improved, especially when they shared an equal rage at Quintus’s behaviour. Claudia was as close to disowning her stepson as Cholon was to poisoning him, a fitting end to someone who was prepared to embrace his father’s murderer. Titus, sickened by what he had witnessed, had gone back to Spain as soon as he decently could, leaving behind what he termed ‘the stink of Roman politics’. Cholon half-wondered if, when this task was complete, he might not depart himself, perhaps to Biaie, which was by the sea and by all accounts a very idyllic place, more Greek than Roman. Eyes closed and curtains drawn, he knew they had arrived in Aprilium just by the babble of voices he heard through the curtain, so he put aside thoughts of a villa overlooking the sea, of the plays and poetry he would write, bringing his mind back to the present and the task in hand.
If the journey to Aprilium had been bad, this was worse. The first part of his route had been on a proper road, the Via Appia, now he was being ferried along badly maintained cart tracks; fine for a horse, passable for a cart, but worse than useless for a litter carried by four stumbling bearers. Finally, having been tossed about quite enough, he alighted from the chair and walked, looking over fields of crops and pasture to the mountains which dominated the eastern skyline, rising in ever-increasing ridges all the way to the centre of Italy.
The praetor in Aprilium had been most obliging; all the farmers on Cholon’s list were Roman citizens, liable for land tax just as they were liable for service, so the directions he had been given were fairly comprehensive. The men had been exempt during their service, but now they were dead, their relatives would have to find the means to satisfy the needs of the Roman state. The praetor had avoided saying it, but he fully expected most of the money that Cholon was distributing to end up in his municipal coffers.
